


Shadows in the Desert

by bongbingbong



Category: Original Work
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-20
Updated: 2020-07-20
Packaged: 2021-03-04 21:53:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25403413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bongbingbong/pseuds/bongbingbong
Summary: A circus caravan crashes in a town in the middle of nowhere. It's not like any town they've been in before, and there's something weird about the local Marshall. She's a crotchety old lady, for starters, and she never seems to leave her front porch.(A Weird Western)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 5





	Shadows in the Desert

The first time Anton met the Marshal, she stabbed him in the thigh with a knitting needle.

It was his own fault, just like everything else that had happened within the past week. Even now as an adult, being the youngest member of Beefy Boris’ Big Top still meant many duties, one of which was a position as designated scapegoat. It was his fault that they were stuck here, for one. Rockfalls as they ventured through Mitchum’s Pass? Anton’s fault. It was time he got a haircut. Bumpy roads that further weakened the cracked wheel spokes of several of their important wagons? Anton again - lad’s poor table manners were bringing bad luck upon all of them. Plus there was the fact that towns like Silvertrail were never that interested in circuses in the first place. So of course, this would be the stop where the wagons fell to pieces - in the middle of nowhere, desert every which way for miles, and not a patch of decent shade save for the Chapel - that is, the local saloon. 

Anton originally figured it must have been some sort of small town inside joke - something for the men to tell their wives when they wanted to sneak out for a drink. Except that, for whatever reason, the place seemed to have leaned into the concept far more than was strictly necessary. For starters, the saloon resembled more of a vast community hall than an establishment for drinking - much larger than should have been necessary for a town of this size. The place was manned by Father Joseph, a man of imposing build and an even more imposing moustache, who kept his bar area - and precisely nothing else in the building - completely spotless. He was never seen without a cross around his neck, and had elected to decorate the place with as much Catholic paraphernalia as he could get his hands on. A jumbled collection of crosses and crucifixes were hammered into the walls around the room, seemingly at random. Candles sat in bulbous mounds of melted wax on shelves, frozen white strands forming glowing stalactites. There were even whiskey-stained bibles on some of the tables, most of which usually had a cup resting on top. 

Originally, Anton had avoided the place - it gave him the creeps, as it did his friends Strongman Tian and Stella. But they had been here for several days now, and there was really nothing else to do. They had taken to coming for daily confession in the afternoon, alongside seemingly the entire rest of the town. 

Silvertrail seemed to possess an odd sense of apathy to it - a resolute absence of care about anything or anyone that made the place seem deserted despite its population. It was refreshing, in a way. Anton, Tian and Stella generally never managed to make it anywhere in public together without their fair share of whoops and calls and objects thrown. Tian and Stella both stood considerably taller and larger than the average citizen - and more Chinese and Black-looking, respectively. That, and Stella’s bushy, but well groomed beard, tended to draw stares from even the most stoic of townsfolk. In fact, that was generally the point. 

Anton, on the other hand, was significantly slighter of build and fairly nondescript, visually speaking. His light brown skin and slightly overgrown black hair was uncommon, but not unusual. The strangest thing about him was his tendency to wear Tian’s colourful cloth-buttoned shirts rather than his own clothes, and subsequently drowning in the billowing fabric. Usually this was due to his propensity for losing at strip poker, but today, it was because he had torn his shirt that morning during the acrobatics rehearsal. Nobody’s mind was really on their jobs at the moment, not when the prospect of being stuck here loomed like an increasingly dark shadow over their heads. No, Anton tended to stand out only when he opened his mouth and said something in his lightly Russian-accented voice. This was generally followed by a pause, and then something along the lines of “you don’t sound like no Mexican I ever seen.” Anton had by now discovered that people actually weren’t all that interested in hearing about his lengthy life story by way of explanation, and generally replied that he was only Mexican on his mother’s side. Which might technically have been true.

In Silvertrail though, nobody cared. Barely anyone was in the street at all this afternoon, and certainly none of the handful of people who were threw even so much as a glance their way. Anton was glad for this, because Tian had taken great pains to pick out a particularly eye-watering brocade shirt for him today, as punishment for being a careless idiot with his tumbling. He had done his best to roll the sleeves up and tuck the shirt into his jeans, but even the slightest breeze made the fabric billow out around him like he was his own circus tent. 

“I tell you nay: but except ye repent, ye shall all likewise perish!”

Anton jumped as a high-pitched shriek broke the town’s shuffling quiet. It was coming from the direction of the general store. An impossibly tall and thin man stood there clutching a bible, wearing greyish-brown clothes that had once been black. The tight clerical collar around his throat suggested priesthood, perhaps a vicar, but he was like no vicar Anton had ever encountered before. The cuffs of his shirt and trousers rode up over his wrists and ankles, like he was being pulled continuously from all directions, stretched until his stick-thin limbs had grown out of his clothing. The effect was that of a gaunt scarecrow, and unfortunately, he seemed to notice Anton staring. His black eyes bore directly into him, and Anton found himself having to look away, his heart beginning to hammer.

“Many, I say unto you, will seek to enter in!” he screeched, spraying out a cloud of spit. He raised one finger to point at Anton, who found himself trapped by his terrifying stare. Tian tugged sharply at his shirt, hurrying him forwards.

“I tell you, everyone here is crazy,” muttered Tian, “Stella, it will be best if we - Stella?”

Tian and Anton spun around to find Stella nose-to nose with the preacher. 

“Stella,” said Tian, just loud enough for Anton to hear him. It was a lost cause, really.

“I know this one!” said Stella, drawing herself up to her full height. The man stood his ground and continued his tirade, now glaring at her.

“When the master of the house is risen up,” she said, matching him word for word.

“And hath shut to the door, and ye begin to stand without,” spluttered the Vicar

“And to knock at the door,” said Stella, growing ever more dramatic as she waved her hands about, her voice taking on a sweeping, operatic cadence. 

“Saying-”

“Saying Lord, Lord!” Stella clutched dramatically at her chest, rolling her eyes around.

“Stella,  _ please _ ,” said Tian. The Vicar had gone bright red in the face, his expression murderous. His fists were clenched at his sides, and it was likely only the good Lord’s commandment to avoid murder that kept him from taking any further action. Stella blew him a kiss as she left.

“You know Stella, one day I would love to get through a town without this.... picking a fight with everybody,” said Anton

“You know Anton, one day I’d love to get through a town without someone decidin’ you need your ass handed to you.”

“Well as far as I can see, I am the one managing the best so far, since you just-”

Anton was cut off as Stella gave him a shove with her ample hip that sent him sprawling in the dust.

As they made their way into the saloon, they heard the Vicar pick up where they had left off. Anton dared a glance back over his shoulder. The man was visibly shaking with rage and once again had his finger pointed at them, accusing. Stella placed a hand on the back of Anton’s head and steered him towards the saloon. Behind them, they heard the Vicar get his final word in.

“The children of the devil abound on this earth!” he hissed. 

*

The creepy vicar was the starting point of an extremely lengthy conversation about men of the cloth in general - they tended to be the sort of people who took issue with things like bearded women, despite the fact that Stella confirmed that she had checked the bible extensively for any commandments to that effect. There were none.

“But what commandments  _ would  _ you put in there?” said Anton, “if you were God.”

“Get rid of all this shit, for starters,” muttered Tian, “surely if their god is so wonderful he would have some taste.”

“I’d make everyone wear a nice hat,” said Stella primly, “what about you, ‘Tosha?”

“I’m going to need a few more before I answer that question,” said Anton, reaching for his drink. 

Of course, like so many questions posed in the midst of a session of alcohol, the answer never came. Before long, the table was strewn with empty glasses and Anton, standing at about half the size of his two friends, was beginning to question whether he could still feel his cheeks.

They had also amassed some other odd bits from around the bar - a fork, bits of toothpick and splinters (that were already coming off the table, Anton swore), and a bit of old rag, all of which Anton was currently handling with the great care that only came from the extremely drunk. A fumble of his fingers sent one of the toothpicks flying into Stella’s bear, where it lodged there sadly. Anton squinted at it.

“If you don’t slow down, we’re gonna end up carryin’ you back like a baby,” said Stella, picking the bit of wood out and flicking it back at him. Anton swatted at it and missed, knocking over a thankfully empty glass in the process. Somewhere in the depths of his murky thoughts, he made a connection.

“Did I tell you guys about my idea for my new act?” he said excitedly, grabbing the glass.

“I hope you will not try it here,” said Tian, raising an eyebrow.

“Shh, no, listen - you know how most of the time when you set the thing on fire, it’s set up like-”

“Too fast, ‘Tosha - is this that ring of fire thing you’ve been harpin’ on about for the past few weeks?” said Stella.

“Yes! Sorry!” Anton grabbed the glass he’d knocked over, and held it up sideways, indicating the rim.

“Say this is the ring right, and you just. You jump through it, see? Once! That’s so boring, it’s on fire for the whole time, there’s all this anticipation, and for a second’s worth of… jump!”

“I’m glad you can still say ‘anticipation,’ that’s a good sign,” said Stella.

Anton waved her away. He put the glass right side up, and placed a fork inside it.

“Say the fork is me. And the glass, you’ve got the fire-”

“Antosha, you have explained this before.” said Tian, taking the glass away from him.

Stella grabbed the end of the fork and rattled it around the glass.

“This is you, hittin’ the sides of the ring, which by the way ‘Tosha, is on  _ fire. _ ”

“Of course it’s on fire, why do you think I’d call it the ring of  _ fire _ if I didn’t mean for it to be on fire?”

“Well sure, if you want to go up in a fireball be my guest, but I’m guessin’ that ain’t your purpose here.”

“My purpose,” said Anton, doing his best attempt at a steady gaze, “is to entertain.” 

“Oh, I’m sure I’ll be plenty entertained when you’re tryin’ to tumble with your ass all up in flames.”

Tian sipped at his drink as he watched his friends argue, a quiet melancholy descending over him. They had had this argument a few days ago, too. The days were starting to blur. The more he helped out on the wagon repairs, the more it was becoming apparent that the work might be beyond the members of the troupe and their limited resources. It didn’t help that they appeared to be the only ones in the area who owned horses, or transportation of any kind. On top of that, the envious stares of the townspeople had not escaped him.

Anton and Stella, having argued themselves out, turned to him with concern.

“What is it?” asked Stella.

“I’m just thinking… we could be stuck here…” Tian gestured vaguely with his beer glass, searching for the word. “Long time.”

That wasn’t a thought Anton was ready to entertain.

“Surely it won’t take them long to sort out one wagon, two wagons... even if we just use them to go for help?” he said.

“You are a sweet boy,” said Tian, shaking his head, “who is checking these wagons? Always every day boss is saying Tian, you must lift this cart, you must lift this trailer, I want to see if the wheel can be fix. I say he want this wheel so badly, I shove it up his arse, consummate the marriage.”

Stella placed a hand on his wrist, and squeezed lightly. A look passed between the two of them, and Anton excused himself quickly to the bar to order another round. He caught the Father staring at him which caused him to chuckle nervously, leaning on the bar for support. It was because of this that he missed the light touch at his pocket - or at least, the meaning of it did not register in his mind until several seconds later. Nobody in the saloon reacted to the man in the green coat as he darted out of the swinging doors. A glance over at their table told him that Tian and Stella had chosen to move their conversation elsewhere. A conversation he most definitely didn’t want a part of. Anton made a split second calculation, weighing up the merits of going after his stolen money versus trying to take on a thief without the backing of one of his far stronger friends. Money won out, and he pushed his way through the swinging doors.

“He went that way, mister!”

Anton squinted as he dashed into the sunlight, then made a dizzying half-turn to see who had spoken. He found himself looking at two young boys in matching overalls. That or he was seeing double, and he was sure he hadn’t drunk quite that much.

“What are you waiting for, mister? Go after him!” 

Anton nodded and set off in the direction the twins had pointed him in. He could make out the green coat up ahead; the streets were mostly deserted and his footsteps had kicked up a small haze of dust. Anton gained on him easily, being fit and light on his feet, and the thief looked visibly panicked as he glanced over his shoulder. He rounded a corner, and Anton followed close behind, reaching out a hand blindly and catching hold of the man’s clothing. Success!

His hand suddenly opened on a reflex, and he stumble back with a gasp. It took a second of confusion for the pain to set in, but suddenly sharp agony lanced from his shoulder all the way down his arm. The man was gone. He had scrambled down the narrow alleyway, leaving Anton staring in horror at the small clasp knife sticking out of his arm. 

* 

“You oughta know better than to get yourself pickpocketed, mister.”

The twins were still waiting there on the porch outside the saloon, sitting balanced on the narrow railing.

“Maybe you ‘oughta’ tell these people not to pickpocket!” spluttered Anton, “is this normal for here? In broad daylight?”

One boy shrugged. The other jumped down from the rail, watching him carefully.

“So people just do whatever you want, and you just... deal with it?”

“Naw,” said the first boy, “everyone figures out pickpocketin’ one way or another ‘round here. Our pa says-”

“Sometimes you get,” said the second boy

“And sometimes you get got!”

They smiled expectantly at Anton, as if they had just told him something extraordinarily clever. Anton raked his good hand through his hair in frustration, trying to make sense of what they had just said.

“I don’t understand,” he said, finally.

The first boy shrugged. “Pa says it a lot after he’s won a round on the tables.”

“After he’s won a round by  _ cheatin _ ’,” said the second boy in a loud whisper.

“I don’t want to know about your pa,” said Anton quickly, “who’s the law around here?”

The first boy made a big show of thinking, scratching at an imaginary beard. The second tapped his finger to his temple in an attempt to look thoughtful.

“Well, you could always bring up your grievances with the Marshall,” said the first boy. His brother rolled his eyes.

“Don’t be stupid,  _ Elvis,  _ she ain’t a real Marshall,”

“Well we ain’t  _ got _ a real Marshall,  _ Winston _ .”

Anton’s jaw clenched. A trickle of sweat ran down the back of his neck. He could barely understand what these children were on about, and every heartbeat sent a new  _ thud _ of pain down his arm. 

“Where is this… this Marshall? She is a woman?”

“She’s the one you go to if you want to air your grievances,” said Elvis. Anton wasn’t entirely sure the boy knew what that meant. 

“She’s got a ranch out west of town. Opposite side to where your circus got broke.” said Winston.

“Pa tried to pickpocket  _ her  _ once, but he got cut up real bad!” said Elvis.

“One of the times he get got. Got get. Got-” 

“Hey mister,” said Elvis, “you’re from the circus right? Can you do a handstand?”

“Do I look like I can do a handstand?” Anton gestured angrily at the knife in his shoulder.

“Go on, get out of here before I take this out, ‘cos when I do it’s gonna spray blood all over the both of you.” He hissed and mimed a spraying motion with his hand, making the twins giggle as they ran off.


End file.
